


End to Begin

by htbthomas



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Forever Ficathon, Gen, Insomnia, Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he'd known, he would have handled it better. He would have found her immediately, would have come to her with apologies rehearsed and explanations formulated. Anything would have been better than what <i>did</i> happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End to Begin

**Author's Note:**

> This is unrelated to my current WIP, no prior knowledge needed!
> 
> Thanks to LadySilver for the beta.

Henry's cleaned his beakers, relabeled the chemicals, checked that every piece of medical equipment is in good working condition.

He's added the latest deaths to his chalkboard and pondered over the increased frequency this last year.

He's gone up to the antiques shop to dust and polish everything, or at least the things that aren't supposed to look dusty and old, heedless of the chastising he'll receive from Abe in the morning.

He's had five cups of chamomile tea, and has glanced furtively at the medicine cabinet more than once. Every time he discards the idea immediately. He can't resort to pills just to get a good night's sleep.

There's little chance of that now, it being 4am and less than a few hours to sunrise. He supposes he should call in sick to work. Jo wouldn't mind, in fact, she'd probably prefer not to see him at all today. Perhaps for several days.

Perhaps forever.

Henry closes his eyes, trying not to succumb to despair. He should be stronger; he's had ample practice in dealing with every sort of reaction to his condition. But it never gets easier.

With his eyes closed it's too easy to recall the look on Jo's face, the look of horror, confusion and hurt—so he opens them up again. During each failed attempt at sleep, he has been haunted by that look, and the last words she said to him, "I-I have to go, Henry. I can't deal with this right now." So staying awake is the only option.

He'd had no idea that she'd seen him die, that she was running toward his body prone on the pavement, when he disappeared like so much mist. He'd only learned later that she'd tackled and disarmed Henry's attacker as he ran away, thankfully not having seen his disappearance. That she'd fretted for hours after the arrest before finally coming to see Abe, only to find Henry sitting on the sofa, calmly having a glass of port before bed.

If he'd known, he would have handled it better. He would have found her immediately, would have come to her with apologies rehearsed and explanations formulated. Anything would have been better than what _did_ happen.

"Henry?" she'd said, her face pale with shock. "You're... alive?" She'd steadied herself on the back of a chair, her knuckles going white. 

"Of course, I'm—" he'd begun, but he'd known it was hopeless to deceive her any longer. Somehow she'd seen it, and there was no going back now.

Abe had rushed to her side, helping her sit. "Are you okay, sweetheart?" he'd said smoothly. He was better at this than Henry, despite having much less experience. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I..." Her eyes were wide and round, the whites showing around the irises. "...think I have."

"Jo." He hadn't wanted her to find out like this, he'd wanted to prepare her, but even as he rose to come toward her he knew it wasn’t true. He'd put himself into too many dangerous situations. Somewhere in his unconscious mind he'd _wanted_ her to find out this way, to see him die and return as incontrovertible proof of his condition. "I can explain."

She held up her hands to stop him from coming any closer. "Just start by telling me this. Did you go to Prospect Park to meet Matthew Brown? Without me?" she demanded, her voice rising with anger.

"I—"

"Tell me the truth, Henry."

He could tell by the serious set of her jaw that lying was out of the question. "Yes."

She calmed a little, then, placated by his honesty. "Did he," —she took a step toward him— "shoot you?"

All became clear—she had seen him get shot. The very thing he'd tried so long to protect her from had happened, and all because he seemed incapable of keeping himself from danger. His heart pounding with fear, he held her eyes and answered again, "Yes."

Off behind them in the kitchen, Abe sighed, murmuring under his breath, "Better get the good whiskey." 

Jo's gaze flickered between the two men, baffled, angry and scared by turns. "How... is that possible?" Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times, before she managed, "You should be dead—or—or at the very least, in the hospital!"

"I should."

She rushed up to him, then, pulling at his jacket with fierce tugs. "Show me, Henry! I have to see for myself."

"Very well." He stepped out of her grip. There was really no sense in denying anything, now that she'd become privy to the truth. Slowly, deliberately, he undid the buttons of his waistcoat, and then the buttons of his shirt. He pulled back his unmarked chest, smooth except for the gunshot scar from 1814.

She came forward again, touching his skin with shaking fingers, her reddened eyes wildly searching for signs of an injury that simply wasn't there. Then she stilled, stepped back, and quietly asked, "...What are you, Henry?"

He pressed his lips together. The simple truth was best. "I am immortal."

"... what?" He could see her thoughts swirling, trying to make sense of everything he had ever said or done in her presence. "But..."

"When I die, I awaken in the nearest large body of water, reset to the age and condition I was when I first died: 35."

Jo started to shake her head, rubbing her hand across her forehead as she struggled to take it in. "And when was that?"

"1814."

And that was how he lost her. She'd fled then, stumbling out of the apartment and down the stairs. 

"Aw, hell," Abe had said, watching her go, then downed both tumblers of whiskey he'd been holding.

That was four hours ago—really, five. Henry's just spent another hour reliving that fiasco of a reveal. How many times will he relive it before the morning dawns?

He paces the floor for the umpteenth time, wondering if he shouldn't just go out walking to clear his head. But if he leaves, he will not hear the phone ring, he will not hear the knock at the door, or any sign that Jo has returned, ready to hear him out again.

Why had he waited so long? There were so many opportunities to tell her calmly, to remind her of the clues, of his odd behavior, to ask her to be ready for the impossible if he died in front of her. She would have listened at least, and been ready to accept if the time came. 

Instead, he'd seen the look in her eyes. Not disbelief—she's too good a cop to dismiss evidence, even evidence that doesn't make sense at first—but dismay. Perhaps dismay that such a thing is possible, he fears something far more likely.

Dismay that he has never trusted her with the truth.

Henry sits on the sofa heavily. In another hour, the sun's rays will bleed through the curtains, the beginning of yet another new day in a string of endless ones. He wishes it didn't feel like the end of everything as well.

Then there's a knock.

It's soft, tentative, but slowly grows louder and more insistent. Frowning, Henry pushes himself up from the sofa to investigate. He'd better get it before Abe wakes up, or he'll be hearing about it for days. A moment before he opens the door, he feels a twinge of hope—that Jo awaits him on the other side.

And she does. Her eyes are red from lack of sleep, she's wearing the same clothing as when she left earlier, but there's no smell of alcohol about her. She takes one look at him and says, "Couldn't sleep either?"

He nods. He's afraid to speak for fear of ruining the fragile hope growing within.

"Or do you _need_ sleep?" she asks, tilting her head to consider him. "Or food?"

Her expression is so enigmatic that he finds he can't stay silent. "Yes. I need both." He takes a small step toward her, praying she won't flinch back. When she remains still, he continues. "I rather enjoy them, in fact."

"Well, then. Since sleep's out of the question..." She tucks a stray piece of hair behind an ear. "...you want to get some breakfast?"

He lets the hope bloom into a broad smile, and finds one reflected on her face. A small one, but a smile nonetheless. "Let me get my coat."

"Just don't disappear on me.” Before he can respond, she adds, “I’m not letting you out of my sight until I hear the whole story."

He’s gone just long enough to grab his coat, his exhaustion falling away because Jo came back. She came _back_. After so many months of lying to her, he doesn't want to waste another minute without her understanding the truth.


End file.
